by Maxine Churchman
The drums sounded sweet. Jack said he would show me how he got those wonderful tones. An extractor fan whirred and clanked ineffectually against the putrid smell in the chilly workshop.
“I need one more, twelve drummers drumming and all that.” He was obsessed with Christmas.
“Chemicals of the trade,” he said, laughing at my streaming eyes.
He picked up a frame over which a skin was stretched so thinly it was almost see-through.
“See that mark? It’s too identifiable.” He ripped it from the frame and turned his dark eyes on me. “You don’t have any birthmarks do you?”
Maxine Churchman is a grandmother from Essex, UK. Having always loved reading, she has recently discovered writing is fun too. To pay the bills, she runs her own business selling promotional items and embroidered clothing to local companies.
She also enjoys hiking, caravanning, knitting, and yoga. Find her blog at cccmaxine.blogspot.com